23. Zoya
ZOYA
I’m not done.
That’s the first clear thought in my head after the orgasm he just pulled out of me with his mouth.
My legs are still weak. My pussy still pulses. My clit feels swollen and too sensitive and not nearly satisfied enough, which is unfair, because he just made me come so hard I had to grip the table to stay upright.
Still, I’m not done.
He’s on his knees in front of me, his mouth wet, his eyes dark, his hand still firm on my thigh. He asks, “Still want me to stop?”
And all I can think is that I have spent too many years stopping myself.
Stopping my hands.
Stopping the thought halfway through.
Stopping desire before it turned into anything I would have to feel too clearly in the morning.
I have been a mother first for so long that want became something private and hurried. A locked-bathroom thing. A late-night under-the-blanket thing. A phone-glow thing. A make-it-fast-before-the-girls-wake thing.
What I want now is not quick.
So I put one hand on his shoulder and push lightly. “Get up.”
His mouth curves, just a little.
He does, slower than he normally would because of the leg. I can see him managing the pain, trying not to show it, and that should cool me down.
It doesn’t.
It only makes me more careful.
When he’s standing, I take his hand and guide him back down onto the couch. He watches me the whole time, that same dark, steady look that always feels like a hand on my skin.
“You’re not getting on top,” I say.
His brow lifts. “No?”
“No. I don’t trust you not to rip your stitches and bleed all over my living room.”
“That’s romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.”
“I noticed.”
I climb onto him before he can say anything else, one knee on either side of his good leg, keeping my weight off the injured one. The angle is awkward at first, and I can feel him tense under me as he adjusts.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I stop.
He looks at me and adds, “Not enough to matter.”
“It matters to me,” I say softly.
He says nothing, but his hands settle more gently on my hips.
I undo his trousers and free his cock.
The sight of it makes heat rush through me again, low and immediate. Hard, flushed, already slick at the tip. I wrap my hand around him once, just because I want to feel him there, heavy and hot in my palm.
His head falls back against the couch. “Fuck, Zoya.”
I stroke him once more. Slow.
He grips my waist harder.
“You said I lead,” I remind him.
“Yes.”
“So behave.”
He laughs once under his breath. “That was never likely.”
I lift my skirt, shove my panties aside, and guide his cock to my pussy.
The first press of him against me almost makes my knees give.
I’m still wet from his mouth, still worked open, still aching for more. I lower myself slowly, bracing one hand on the back of the couch and the other on his shoulder, and the stretch of him pushing into me is so good I have to stop halfway just to breathe.
His hands clamp on my hips. “Easy,” he says, voice rough.
“Shhh,” I say.
“You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
He’s thick enough that every inch feels deliberate. My pussy takes him slowly, gripping, resisting, then giving way as I sink down farther. I can feel every pulse of him, every small twitch of control leaving his body as I seat myself over his cock.
When I finally take him fully, I let out a helpless sound and rest my forehead against his.
“There,” he says quietly.
I nod once.
I stay like that for a second, just feeling him inside me.
This. This is what I wanted when I was alone at night and pretending a hand and a phone were enough. Not just release. Not just friction. The fullness of him. The weight of a real body. The indecent comfort of sitting on a man’s cock and knowing he is exactly where I put him.
I lift my head and start to move.
The first roll of my hips is slow because it has to be. My body is still trembling from the orgasm, still sensitive enough that every shift drags his cock against my walls in a way that makes my breath catch.
Ruslan watches my face. Not my breasts. Not the movement between us.
My face.
That does something dangerous to me.
I put both hands on his shoulders and ride him harder. His hands slide from my hips up my sides, under my blouse, over my waist and ribs until they reach my breasts. He cups them through the fabric first, squeezing once, and I gasp.
I pull the blouse open the rest of the way and push my bra down.
His expression changes immediately.
That look. Hungry enough to shame me if I had any shame left.
I take one of his hands and place it properly on my breast. “There,” I say.
He groans. The sound goes straight through me.
I keep moving on his cock, up and down now, using the back of the couch for balance while he palms my breasts like he has been denied them for years.
Which, in a way, he has. Me too. I haven’t been touched like this in so long that every rough, greedy squeeze feels like my body is waking up piece by piece.
He drags his thumbs over my nipples, and I nearly lose the rhythm.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“That’s right.”
His mouth closes over one breast as soon as I lean close enough.
He sucks hard. I cry out and arch into him, and that only gives him more of me. He buries his face in my breasts like he can’t decide which one he wants more, mouth hot and rough, tongue and teeth and breath against skin that has spent too long being practical.
Breasts for nursing.
Breasts for bras that fit under work blouses.
Breasts for children to lean against when they’re sick.
Now they are for his hands and his mouth and my own desperate need.
I rock on his cock faster, chasing the friction, and he keeps sucking and mouthing at my tits until I can barely think. One of his hands stays on my breast while the other drops between us, finding my clit with humiliating ease.
I jerk.
“You like it, don’t you?”
“Don’t sound so pleased.”
“I’m very pleased.”
His thumb circles my clit, firm and slow at first, matching the rhythm of my hips. I’m already close again, embarrassingly close, my pussy squeezing him every time he hits deep, and his mouth stays latched to my breast.
I grind down harder. He takes the hint and keeps his thumb on my clit while I ride his cock the way I want now, messy and needy, using him for exactly what I came here for.
All those nights after the girls were asleep.
The dark. My phone in one hand, the other between my legs.
The ugly, lonely relief of making myself come quickly and quietly because there was laundry to do tomorrow, and school runs, and meetings, and no room in my life for desire unless it could fit into the cracks.
I don’t want the cracks right now. I want this.
His cock filling me.
His face buried in my breasts.
His hand on my clit.
His mouth marking skin that has only been handled gently or functionally for years.
I come forward, almost falling against him, and he wraps one arm around my back to hold me there while I keep riding him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs into my breast. “Take what you need.”
Something about that nearly undoes me on the spot.
I take it. I use him. I move on his cock until the sound of it fills the room, wet and filthy and impossible to mistake. My thighs are burning. My clit is getting more sensitive by the second. His breathing has turned rough enough that I know he’s close too, but he keeps letting me set the pace.
I lift my head and look at him. “Don’t you dare come before I do.”
He gives me a half-lost smile. “You seem very confident.”
“I am.”
He slides his thumb harder over my clit.
I nearly sob.
“There it is,” he says.
I hate how well he knows my body. I hate how fast it all comes back. The angle of his cock, the pressure I need, the way he talks when he wants me open and honest and shameless.
I ride him faster, no grace left, only want.
His mouth goes back to my breasts. He sucks one nipple hard, then the other, burying his face between them while I fuck myself on his cock and chase the heat building low and sharp inside me.
“Ruslan,” I say, and this time it’s not a warning.
His hand tightens at my back. His thumb stays relentless on my clit.
“Come for me, Zo,” he breathes.
That does it.
The orgasm goes through me in waves. My whole body locks, then shudders.
My pussy clamps down on his cock so hard he curses into my breast, and I keep moving through it because stopping feels impossible.
I ride the wave until it breaks into smaller shocks, my head tipped back, my hands gripping his shoulders hard enough that I know I’ll leave marks.
He lasts a few seconds longer.
Maybe less.
My orgasm drags his out of him. He grips my hips and thrusts up as much as he can from beneath me, careful of the leg and careless of everything else, then goes rigid with a groan against my chest.
I stay where I am for a moment afterward, sitting on his lap, both of us breathing too hard. My blouse is open. My bra is shoved down. My pussy is still fluttering around his softening cock. His face is pressed between my breasts like he doesn’t want to lift his head.
I pull back first. He lets me, but slowly, his hands sliding from my waist only when I start fixing my clothes.
Neither of us speaks for a second.
Then I say, because I need to be the one to break whatever this is becoming, “You got what you wanted.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“No,” he says. “Not even close.”